


Kristofer Hivju: Norwegian Rain

by skysonfire



Series: Kristofer Hivju [2]
Category: Kristofer Hivju
Genre: F/M, Fiery Fics and Bits, Galdhopiggen, Jotunheimen, Norsk | Norwegian, One Shot, One Shot Collection, Porn With Plot, Roisheim, www.fiery-fics-and-bits.tumblr.com
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-22
Updated: 2015-09-22
Packaged: 2018-04-22 22:15:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4852538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skysonfire/pseuds/skysonfire





	Kristofer Hivju: Norwegian Rain

Emerging from the dark, quiet cottage brings forth a sensory onslaught of color and sensations that are felt not only on the skin, but in the soul.

The September grass is a rocky swirl of emerald and burnt saffron. Small flowers of white and purple pour over cracked and worn stone containers, and the lush magic of Jotunheimen surrounds all with its ancient trees, heavenly blue waters filled with history and secrets, and the mysteries of the endless winter-capped Galdhopiggen.

He sits on the worn wooden steps of the cottage, his face and hair aflame against his creamy, speckled skin. The smoke from his cigarette dances with the swirl of the morning fog, and his strong fingers fiddle with a tired ceramic coffee mug. He wears blue, and I think he must be doing it on purpose to make me jealous of his perfect presence. My heart palpitates, and I am sure that the ancient gods are awakened by my desire for him. This is a strange land to me, but he escorts me through this – his place – and the simple Roisheim as though it was the source of my cells and bones.

He turns to face me and the marine wash of his eyes married with the smile he breaks indicates to me that we are going nowhere today, and that’s fine. It feels important to keep him close for as long as I can before life comes calling.

I pull my long sweater about my frame to keep my flesh from the misty touch of coming winter’s tendrils, but he stands and extinguishes his cigarette and places his mug down. His advance is Viking — his stare focused and pushed and intent, and when his hands weave inside my sweater, I am hot and primitive — my pulse throbbing like a tightly skinned, beaten ritual drum.

My lips part and my eyes flutter under the influence of his palms, which stroke deliberately the silky spun skin of my waist and the tender swell of my breasts, peaking for him.

He brings his face close and I smell something salty on him; far away and ancient. Hops and clove and musk sleuth within the fibers of the course fire that covers his face, and I push back against the heavy door to lead us within.

Please take me to bed, my body begs.

He encourages the sweater from my shoulders and we pass the small burning fire lighting the cottage with a hazy daze. My hands reaching for the zipper on his sweater, I pull slowly, my eyes affixed on his face, and I expose the pale glowing cover that wraps his muscles. He hums quietly when I touch him, and he presses me against the four poster wooden bed.

Before he lays me down, he brings his mouth to my ear. His breath is warm and gooseflesh covers my neck. “Jeg lengter etter deg.” His baritone voice is seasoned with the accent of his country and there is a gruff sound at the back of his throat, which speaks to what he wants; a longing.

I relax back onto the bed to watch him shed his clothes. The definition of his body is stunning, like a cultural relic, and his eager grip – so hard for me – brings a wet beating from between my thighs.

When he stretches his body over mine, I part my knees wide and he hangs there, just testing his direction. The soft sheets beneath me are so cool, and above me, he is so vital and torrid.

My mouth waters and I bring my hands through the oily red waves of his hair. “Yes,” I whimper. “Me, too,” I whisper.

Outside, the mist swells and mimics our longing as it gives way to the Norwegian rain.


End file.
